


For Every Season

by duskwatcher



Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-01 03:51:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6499684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskwatcher/pseuds/duskwatcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can a Great Love ever truly end? When Claire's worst fears are realized, can she face the sunset of their lives with grace? "Though lovers be lost, love shall not; And death shall have no dominion."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Broken Pitcher

“How is he doing?” Bree’s eyes were wide and serious.

I rubbed the back of my hand across my forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat gathered at my hairline. Spring had finally arrived on the ridge, and its first warm day was glorious. The heat of the house rose to the second floor where our bedroom was, and by mid-afternoon, it was warm. I shook out the coverlet and let it billow to rest on the bed. “Bloody Scot,” I grumbled over my shoulder as I tucked in the corners. “He knows I want him to get well, so of course he’s too stubborn to do so.”

Bree’s lips pressed together, as if to say something but instead she picked up the empty pitcher on the bedside table. “I’ll get some more water,” she volunteered.

“Thank you, dear,” I said, coming around to the other side of the bed. Jamie was thirsty all the time, now. His urine was strong and sweet-smelling and it was worrying me. It meant his kidneys could be failing, the latest in a line of symptoms- all of which boded no good. I went over it in my mind- the diabetes-like symptoms, the swollen gallbladder, the abdominal pain. Even the slight case of jaundice, which explained why I’d had Roger and Jem carry him outside to where the spring sunshine might work on him.

I wouldn’t say it, not even in my own mind, but the physician inside me ruthlessly went over the symptoms. Increased thirst, loss of weight even before he’d lost his appetite, the nausea and pain I knew he felt but refused to complain about in front of anyone but me. The mass in his abdomen, the jaundice. The symptoms were cascading. If I knew for sure, I’d chance a biopsy; I still had a bit of ether in my surgery…

“Mom?” Bree was still standing in the room, clutching the water pitcher to herself, her arms squeezing it against her belly. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears and her chin quivered once before she grit her teeth to stop it. She fought for control and I saw her take a deep breath before she raised her chin. “Is Da going to be all right?”

For a moment, the habit to reassure her, to pretend that it was all within my power to fix, to be the powerful La Dame Blanche who could save men with a wave of her hand or the herbs in her chest, tempted me. I’d saved dozens, hundreds, maybe even thousands of lives with my knowledge and skill. But this time, there was no magic cure in my hands. This was a fight for which I had no weapons. I spent my days making sure Jamie was comfortable, tucking in the blanket around his perpetually cold feet, trying to persuade him to have a bit more broth when his stomach was settled, having Roger and Jeb move him outside when the weather permitted, and my nights in the small medical library I had amassed over the years, looking for anything that might indicate a different diagnosis than the one all the signs pointed to. The thought of it lay in the bottom of my mind like a sleeping snake. _Pancreatic Cancer._

I spun away from the bed, trying to shake the words from me. I had not the presence of mind to compose my face before I turned in her direction and I saw the terror I knew was written on my countenance reflected in her eyes. Her eyes, so like his, widened and her chest rose in a silent gasp.

I stood before her, suddenly speechless. I could not speak the words of reassurance, for I knew in my heart they were not true. I swallowed once as a pain originated in my heart, radiated outward and I made a small helpless gesture with a hand.

The crockery in her hands fell to the floor, and shattered on the edge of the hearth, spraying pieces outward. The sharp slivers would cut the soles of the feet of Jenny Marie and Billy, Bree’s youngest, when they came to visit their grandfather in bed. “Oh, “ I gasped, dazed. I fell to my knees, gathering the pieces in the apron I wore. “The pitcher…” It was just a plain white pitcher, slightly misshapen at that, but suddenly it seemed a tragedy that it was gone, broken, shattered. “The pieces...” I said, tears springing to my eyes and thickening in my throat.

As my hand reached for another jagged piece, her hand stopped mine. She knelt beside me, and threw an arm around my shoulders. “Oh, damn it, Mother.” Her voice shook with tears. “Fuck the pitcher.”

Her eyes were brimming with tears and suddenly I could not be the strong one. She pulled me into her arms, where the fear and the pain and the specter of loss rolled over me like a wave, drowning me, pulling me into its darkness. We clung tightly to each other, holding on as if we were shipwrecked sailors , adrift in an ocean of grief. We knelt together among the pieces of shattered crockery and wept.

They were long, shuddering sobs, pulled wrenchingly from me and echoing from the depths of my love for the Highlander that had given my life shape and meaning. She cried with me, with the knowledge that this second father whom she had come to love was to be taken from her.

“I can’t stand it, Bree,” I whimpered into her hair, when the ability to speak returned to me. “I can take anything but losing him.” She had her arms wrapped around my neck and I felt her hands cup my head and smooth my hair.

“I know, Mom, I know.” She pulled back from me, tear tracks shimmering on her cheeks, her nose red and blotchy. Her face searched mine. “Does he know?” I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“No, I haven’t said anything to him. I think he knows I’m scared, but I keep hoping my diagnosis is wrong.”

The sound of footsteps climbing the stairs drifted into the room, as well as the sound of Mrs. Mueller’s huffing. Our housekeeper for the last few years, she was a rotund German woman. “Halloo,” she called as she came down the hall. “Ist everyone all right in here?”

“Yes, we’re fine,” I answered, using the corner of my apron to wipe my eyes. “Just a small accident.”

Bree dragged the sleeve of her dress across her face as I started reaching to gather the crockery shards again. I stood up, holding my apron, the pitcher’s pieces clanking together inside its folds. Still on her knees, Bree looked up at me and I could see the many questions she wanted to ask in her eyes. “Later,” I promised softly. “Later.” At the moment, I had to pull myself together.

Mrs. Mueller turned the corner into the room and clucked at the crockery pieces still strewn around the room. “Ach, is de broom we’ll be needing.”


	2. A Loose Goat

The floor swept, and Bree and Mrs. Mueller off to find another pitcher, I lingered in our bedroom. I gave the window sill a sharp rap and then pushed on the window. After a long winter hiatus, it gave begrudgingly but it finally swung open and the warm spring air, redolent of grass and trees, gently wafted in. I inhaled deeply, the fresh breezes nearly paradaisical after the smoky, close air of the winter. I fingered the curtains, they could use a good washing next laundry day.

Our window overlooked the front of the house and out on the patch of grass in front of the house, Roger and Jem had set up one of the deep chairs from the living room. Jamie sat in it, his face upturned to the sun, a patchwork quilt over his shoulders and across his lap. His hair had finally given up its ginger, and had warmed to a pale yellow color except where it shone a pure silver at the temples.

His eyes were closed against the strength of the sun, his face serene and at rest. Even with the pallor of winter and the tinge of his illness, his skin was ruddy, speaking of a life lived outdoors. The lines of his face were deep and strongly etched: lines of care that ridged his forehead, the crow’s feet at his eyes’ corners and the brackets around his mouth that revealed a readiness to laugh. Age had sharpened his nose even more , but those eyes were still the same, the same startling blue surrounded by his rufous lashes.

Around the corner of the house, Alexander the goat came trotting at a sharp pace, a brown flash of cloth dangling from his mouth. He was followed in quick succession by Jem, and the dangling brown object resolved into Jem’s hat. Jem, now a tall and gangly boy of nineteen, had taken to wearing a slouch hat, much in the manner of the Carolina regiment that had passed through last fall, much to Bree’s chagrin. She had absolutely refused to consider the possibility of Jem joining up with them, despite his fervent arguments for just such an endeavor.

Watching Jem’s long strides, and athletic pursuit of Alexander, I thought it wouldn’t be too much longer before Bree was no longer granted the consideration. “Gimme back my hat, ye quim-licking scunner!” Jem cried as he rounded the corner, snatching for the hat, causing Alexander to veer sharply toward Jamie’s chair.

Jamie’s arm shot out as the goat cantered past, plucking the hat from the surprised goat, who then turned and wheeled back to the safety of the goats’ enclosure. “Here ye be, lad,” Jamie said, offering the hat.

“Thanks, Grandda.” Jem jammed the hat on, a bit worse for wear. Even from my perch, I could see a tear and missing bit of the brim. Jem squatted next to the chair, so Jaime would not have to squint up into the sun to see him.

“Best ye not let your Ma and Da hear you speak like that,” Jamie warned. “You may be too old for a tanning but I’ll wager they’ll think of something unpleasant.”

Jem peered from under the misshapen hat brim. “Well, let’s not tell them, then, eh?”

Jamie snorted with humor. “They’ll not hear it from me,” he promised.

Jem picked up a twig and scratched a line in the dirt with it. “So, what appears to be ailing ye?”

Jamie glanced up to the window where I was concealed by the curtain. I took a silent step backward, but kept my eyes on the tableau below. He shrugged. “Oh, it’s just all going to pot, ye ken?” Even that small bit was an admission I’d not heard him make before. He’d tell me of his aches and pains if he were asked, but stoicism came naturally to him and admitting to fraility in front of Jem was startling.

“Doesna Grannie have something to cure ye?”

“I think mebbe not this time,” Jamie said. He leaned toward the boy. “And aye, it’s making her verra crabbit.”

“You’re sick and _she’s_ crabbit?’ Jem asked, puzzled.

“Indeed. The sicker I get, the more crabbit she gets. She takes it personally, you ken, when I refuse to get better.”

Jem tossed the twig in his hands away. “Well, you’d best get better soon, aye?”

Jamie smiled at the squatting boy. “So, who was it you were in such a hurry to see last night?” _Last night?_ I wondered. Roger and Bree had not said anything about visitors last night.

“Oh, ye saw that, eh?” Jem said, the color rising on his checks.

Jamie nodded. “Take the time to oil the hinges on the surgery door before you try to slip away next time. It creaks something fierce.” I didn’t remember hearing the surgery door, but I knew Jaime had had another restless night.

Jem pulled the hat off his head and looked up at his grandfather through the hair that had fallen over his eyes. It had deepened to the same shade of Bree’s and Jamie’s at that age- a brilliant mix of cinnamon, amber and flame. “Hank and Willie Dunham were going coon hunting. They’d asked me to come along.”

“Hmmphm,” his grandfather said, infusing the noise with a fair amount of skepticism. “And that hunting wouldna be anywhere near the McElviray property, would it?”

The McElvirays had a full brace of daughters, three of them between twenty and sixteen. They all had their mother’s amply rounded figure and large, thickly-lashed eyes.

Jem grinned, abashedly. “Well, there are a muckle lot of them over that way.” Jem’s brogue broadened when speaking to his grandfather. He had Jamie’s gift for languages and could easily slip into Gaelig.

Jamie’s brow furrowed. “You’re lucky Angus McElviray didna shoot ye where ye stood.”

“Aye, he tried,” Jem confessed. “Willie near got a pantload of buckshot. As it was, he dropped from the tree he was in so quick, he turned his ankle fierce, and Hank and I had to carry him home.”

Jamie chuckled. “Well, then ye got away light. Angus is no known for being tolerant when it comes to his daughters.”

“That’s God’s truth,” Jem said, scratching his head. Across the yard, Alexander was getting dangerously close to the bandages I had spread on the blackberry bushes to let the sunshine disinfect. I took a step forward, thinking to alert Jem below, but Jamie was already on it.

“Best get that goat in the pen,” he said, nodding to where Alexander was eyeing my linens.

Jem rose and jammed the hat back on his head. “I could learn to hate goats,” he muttered as he turned away. Jamie chuckled again and he twisted in his chair toward the window where I stood. His eyes found me unerringly. A knowing smile crossed his face, and I knew he’d been aware of me the whole time.

His eyes turned to Jem as he manhandled the goat back to the pen and I could see the pride swell his chest. This family, Roger and Bree and their children, was Jamie’s proudest legacy and he felt that because of them, he had not lived his life in vain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all the co-outlander fans out there, this is for you. Please let me know if you are enjoying...


	3. A Conversation

It was bread-making day- the whole house smelled of baking yeast. Twice a week Mrs. Mueller mixed huge bowls of dough to rise in the warmth of the kitchen.  We had two brick-lined bread ovens built into the kitchen hearth and they would produce the bread and rolls needed for not only our household but Bree’s as well.   I’d spent the afternoon in the surgery tending the penicillin colonies, distilling and purifying.   Jamie had been set up in his sitting room, the door was open and Roger was in there with him.  

 I stood outside the door, gathering my strength before putting on my doctorly face and getting Jamie back upstairs.  Sleep had been eluding me this week, and a part of me seemed to be actively fighting it. I would snuggle up against Jamie at night, wrapped in the warmth and security of his arms until I heard his breath deepen and regulate as he fell into sleep. My own mind would be going a million miles an hour, so I would turn and watch him sleep by the moonlight. I wanted to spend hours memorizing and cherishing each line, each hair on his head. His face would soften and smooth with the relaxation of sleep until he looked like the young man I had married.  His arms and shoulders above the sheet were those of an older man, though, covered with the scars of battles fought and won.

 I had loved him passionately in my youth, mourned his loss and then celebrated when we were reunited. We had years since filled with joy and adventure, loss and love but I knew, with a sureness that brooked no controversy, that I loved him more deeply, more completely now in our old age than I could have ever imagined when we were younger.  There were no limits to it- it was that which amazed me. Whenever I thought I could not love him more, that this was as complete a love as there could be, another day would dawn and I would know that my feelings were even deeper, more passionate, more central to my world  than the day before. He was my universe, and it did not matter _where_ or _when_ we were, just that _we were_.

 There were, however, limits to how far his stamina would stretch.  His voice was still strong , but I knew that by this time in the afternoon, he would be starting to feel fatigued.  He sniffed once and cleared his throat.  “Ye’ll need to keep an eye on Silas Whitney, aye?  His mother’s no match for him. She needs a man to ride herd on that crop of hellions.”

Roger ‘s chair creaked as he shifted his weight. “Aye, its been a hard road for her since Gordie died.”

Jamie made a Scottish sound of dismissal. “He wasna all that much of a help when he was alive.” The two of them chuckled softly. “Perhaps ye could be introducing Tommy Buchanan to her at the Gathering.”

Roger made a low noise in his throat that conceded that possibility. I paused while I puzzled why Jamie was talking about the fall celebration now.

“The north meadow, up by the white spring,” Jamie said.  “It’s been fallow for two years and ye can plant barley there next spring.”

“Oats in the middle field, yer thinking?”

“Aye, and the corn in the low one. But ye mun wait to seed until after the full Milk Moon.”

“We manured the Higgins’ field today, and we’ll be starting with MacIntosh’s tomorrow.”

“Good. Ye’ll be needing to geld Betty’s colt come summer. Oh, and dinna ferget to fix that fence in the west field before ye turn the mules out. Jem said he heard a painter in the woods near there last week.”

That damn Scot! He was giving instructions as if he wasn’t going to be around.  He’d only be handing out future plans if he thought he wasn’t going to be here to oversee them.  Anger made my hands clench. Did he trust in my abilities so little then?  I certainly wasn’t giving up on him, and he’d better damn well not be giving up on me. We would find something that might help him, there were still avenues to be explored. God, how many times had I brought him back from the brink? It could still – No! It _would_ happen again.

It was a physician’s attitude, there is always something more that can be done, maybe some out-of- the-way treatment or medicine that can improve a patient just as long as they _hold on._ I’d heard a story when I’d worked in Boston from a patient who’d worked in the NTSB, doing the investigations on domestic plane crashes . He’d said that was one thing that was the same in every black box tape they’d listened to- the pilots were always working right up to the very last second, trying the elevons, the rudder, trying to get the nose up, any odd thing that might possibly help. “Up until that very last moment,” he said, “when they realize they’re out of time,  only then it’s the final ‘oh shit’, right before they smack into mountainside or the water. Up until then, you can hear them always trying to find something, some way, to pull their nuts out of the fire.”

Well, as far as I was concerned, we weren’t anywhere near that ‘oh shit’ moment and I’d be damned if anyone’s nuts were getting singed. I swept into the study.

Jamie sat in the leather chair behind his desk, his books open on the desk in front of him, massaging his maimed hand. His untouched lunch balanced on the corner on the desk. At nearly seventy, he was still straight and firm, his shoulders square under the wool shawl thrown over them. His color was good today, the warmer weather was agreeing with him. His blue eyes burned with intelligence and humor, and his eyebrow twitched as he saw me. He registered my mood in an instant, and nodded to Roger.  “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

Roger rose from his chair facing the desk and stretched toward the ceiling. He nodded to me. “Bree says to thank ye for the motherwort. It’s helping her quite a bit.”

“Good, I’m glad,” I said, keeping my gaze on Jamie. He was eyeing me speculatively.

“Well, then,” Roger said, in the somewhat tense silence that followed. “Til tomorrow, then.”

“Aye, til tomorrow,” Jamie said.

Roger padded out, and Jamie leaned back in his chair. His mouth twitched once as he regarded me. “Ye’ve got something to say, Sassanach?”

I put my hands on the desk and leaned forward over it. “You bet I do. Sounds like you’re handing out instructions.”

His eyes dropped and he brushed some imaginary dust off the book in front of him as I straightened up and crossed my arms to await his answer.  “Well, ye ken, that’s kinda what I do here. I’m a wee bit too old for wrestling a plow behind a mule, don’t ya think? If that’s what you’re –“

“Don’t you play the fool with me, James Fraser.  You’re , you’re – “ I searched for the word that would convey my anger and frustration, my hands clenched at my sides. “You’re surrendering, aren’t you? Do you think so little of my healing abilities that you’re just going to lay down and die?”  My voice nearly broke on the last word, but I swallowed my tears and dug my fingernails into my palms.

His level gaze met mine, and his eyes softened. “ _Mo chridhe, mo nighean donn._   Did ye think I dunno know?”

I raised my chin. “Know what?” I was proud my voice didn’t even tremble.

He raised his strong, large and weathered hands in front of him. His maimed right hand had adapted to the loss of his ring finger and for most strangers, it took a second glance to realize that a finger was missing. He stretched his hands out and turned them over and again, examining them. “I ha’ lived in this body for nigh seven decades now.  It’s been beaten and abused most grieviously o’er the years and yet it always answered me when I needed it.”  His voice dropped.  “I ken what it’s telling me now.”

“And what is that?” I demanded.

“And then it’s what you’re not telling me, too, Sassenach. I see the fear that lies behind your eyes.” My vision blurred, but I heard him rise and come around the desk behind me.  “If there was something that could be done,  ye’d be planning and carrying on. But ye don’t and ye haven’t. “ He drew me back against the warmth of his chest, wrapping his arms around me.  “Ye havena told me at all, and that ha’ been more telling than anything ye might say.”

“I’m wrong, I could be wrong,” I whispered. My face was burning with the need to cry.

He made a Scottish noise in his throat that was full of humor. “Now I know I must be standing at death’s door to hear those words on your lips.”

I turned around swiftly and stepped  away from his embrace. Anger made me shake. “Don’t you dare, James Alexander Malcolm McKenzie Fraser, you bloody fucking Scot! Don’t you dare! “  I was so furious I couldn’t even find the words. 

His eyebrow rose. “Aye?”

His eyes searched mine and I saw there that he knew why I was angry. That it was my own helplessness that was driving this fury. That and fear.  No, not fear. Terror.  It ate the anger and left me there, shaking, speechless, while my heart dropped to my feet.

“Oh, Jamie!”  I cried and threw my arms around his neck.  The tears started in earnest.  I had been holding onto them for so long, trying to stay positive and supportive. My feelings of helplessness overwhelmed me  and I began to sob loudly. I was facing an unimaginable loss and it felt as if my heart was being pulled from my chest. I hugged him as tight as I could, as if holding him would keep him safe and with me.

He maneuvered us over to the settee and pulled me onto his lap. He held me tight against his chest while I curled against him like a child. He smoothed my hair and crooned soft soothing words of Gaelic that I couldn’t even understand and didn’t try, listening instead to the love and reassurance behind those words.  

As the wave of emotion subsided , the words began to make sense. He was whispering in Gaelic, again and again. “Tha mi duilich. Tha mi cho duilich . Tha mi duilich a 'fàgail thu cùl.”

I pulled back, sniffling. “You’re sorry?  What are _you_ sorry for?”

His thumb smudged a tear across my cheek. “That I must leave you. I know I promised the protection of my body. It seems the time is coming where I must break my word.”

“No, no. I won’t let you go.” I shook my head. I started to slide off his lap. There had to be something. Perhaps if I travelled to Boston, to the medical libraries there - 

His arms tightened around me. “Oh, _mo chridhe,_ my heart.  I have loved the fight in ye since I first laid eyes on ye. ” He pulled back to look me in the eyes. “But, Claire, this is not a fight ye can win.”

“There must be some medicines we can try –“

His hands tightened on my arm. He swallowed once and looked away for a moment before his gaze returned to mine.  “No, Claire. No.” 

I put my hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart against my hand. It was the beat that defined my life.  “Jamie –“ I pleaded. “Maybe we can...” But I trailed off. There wasn’t anything in my surgery that would make a difference. Make him more comfortable perhaps.

“Let me ask ye, and ye mun tell me true, Sassanach. How long?” He had on his poker face.

“I – I can’t say for certain, but I suspect not very long at all,” I whispered.

“Aye.” He  nodded, as if that was the answer he expected. “Well, that’s good, then.”

I laughed through my tears. “Good? That’s good?”

His eyes dropped to the floor. “Well, I am a bit of a coward, ye ken? I’ve no wish to be hanging on in pain for years and years.” I took a breath to protest that I would use whatever laudanum I had on hand to make sure that didn’t happen but he put a finger on my lips. “Aye, I know ye’d do whatever there was to help me, but I ha’ lived too long as a free man to spend the end of my life bound to a bed.”

 I dragged a hand across my eyes. “How can you talk that way?”

“It’s a coward I am, and well I know it.  You think it’s no easier for me to go first?  I ken well-“ He swallowed and when he looked at me again, the tears that had been brimming in his eyes  started down his face. “If it twere the other way around, do ye think I could stand it?” he whispered. “I must ask ye to do something I could never do and that is to let me go.”

“Jamie,” I sobbed. I clutched him hard. “I can’t. I can’t-“

“Ye must, Claire. There’s Bree, and Roger. They’ll be needing your savvy, eh? And Jem, Mandy, Jenny Marie and Billy. And what of Ian’s brood as well? They’ll all have need of ye for many years to come.”

“No, no.” I shook my head, crying. “You can’t ask me-“

His hands tightened. “Claire. Claire! Promise me!” I raised my tear stained face to him. “For the bairns’ sake, you’ll do – you’ll not… hasten anything along.”

I sniffed violently. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to me. I took advantage of it and blew my nose.  The amount of liquid the human nose and eyes could produce was really astounding. “You can’t tell me what to do when you’re gone, ” I grumbled, wiping my eyes.

He grinned. “Aye, I ne’er could even while I’m here.”

I handed him the wet and crumpled handkerchief; he blew his nose and dropped it beside him. I settled back against him, circled within his arms, my legs across his lap.

“They’ll have need of ye,” he repeated under his breath as I soaked up his warmth. I wasn’t so sure of that. 

“It’s not fair,” I said. “It’s just not fair.”

“Dinna fash, Sassanach,” he said resting his chin on the top of my head.  “I ha’ had so many years with ye, years that I never thought to hope for. Do you know what it means to me to have had that? To look out over the Ridge and see the family and the community we have built here? Do ye think I ever had the hope of that while I lay in the cave or at Ardsmuir? Oh, dinna fash, mo nighean donn, It’s grateful I am for every moment. “

We sat in silence. Every breath he took was precious to me, because now they could be counted. I leaned against him, wrung out by the emotion and just comforted by his heat and nearness.

After a few moments he spoke. “Do ye know?” he asked, wondering. “She was right, I think she was right.”

I frowned, trying to think what he could be referring to.  “Hmm?”

“The fortune teller, she said I was like a cat. Nine lives, I would have.  By Christ, I think she was right.”

He was referring to a fortune teller he’d met during his youth in France during his mercenary years. We had had this conversation before. It had been hard to count - yes, he’d been close to death many times, but what counted as a new life or just a near miss?  “Well, there was the wound you took at Culloden, and then after Wentworth.”

“Aye, when Laoghaire shot me. And the snake bite.”

“Right.” I shuddered at the memory. “Dougal almost got you. That would be five.”

He nodded.  “There was the near miss at the Battle of Monmouth -”

I sat up.  “What near miss?”

“Well, when we charged by the church. A British soldier stepped ou’ in front of me. He pulled his trigger aimed dead at me, but the gun mis-fired and knocked him down instead o’ me.”

“What?! You never told me this!”

“You were shot by then. I didna think you’d be wanting to hear about my own misadventures at the moment. “

“Hmmphm.”  I settled back against him. “There was the ship sinking.”

“Ye mean the Euterpe? But I wasna anywhere near that.”

“I thought you were dead for weeks, James Fraser. It was all too real for me.”

“Hmmph,” he said, conceding the point. “And the yellow fever at Wilmington. That makes eight. This is my ninth life, then.”

I reached up and stroked his face. “A hundred lives would not be enough to spend with you.”

He clasped my hand in his own and kissed my fingertips. “ _Then let amorous kisses dwell_ , “ he recited softly.  “ _On our lips begin and tell –“_

We finished the stanza together. “ _A thousand and a hundred score, A hundred and a thousand more_ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments help me to write!


	4. A Tired Mule

Rarely is the progression of a terminal disease a straight line. There are good days and bad days and you hold onto hope that the former outweigh the latter. There were days when Jamie couldn’t eat, had to struggle to get out of bed, when the great engine that was his body failed what the spirit asked of it. But there were other days, too, when he sprang from our bed in the morning, and was out before the sun had finished rising to see what could be done in keeping the homestead up and running.  

There are some men to whom responsibility for others is a burden, and whether they bear it willingly or unwillingly, still they feel its weight. But there are men also, and some women as well, who rise to the needs and demands of others, like a trout to a fly. The care of a community is as complex and involved as the care of a body, but it was something Jamie relished. There were times when I wished I could tell him to slow down and enjoy this time, but seeing to the well-being and prosperity of his tenants was what he enjoyed.

I responded to the needs of the ailing and broken, and I often gained their appreciation if not their confidence.  The confidence of his tenants in his judgment, his vision, was what fed his soul. He knew each family as well as his own hand:  the children, who was expecting another, how they were related to each other, like a great spider web in connectedness, how he kept in straight in his head, I couldn’t say, but he did.

I had just stitched up the foot of Agnes Buchanan who’d lost control of an axe while chopping wood.  It was amazing how many axe injuries there were, chopping wood seemed to be current equivalent of what traffic accidents would be in the future.  I cleaned, stitched and wrapped the foot and sent her off with strict instructions on keeping it clean. I even had hopes they might be obeyed- Agnes was a doughty woman who ran her house with 3 sons with an iron hand.

I straightened up after the procedure and went to make a record of it in my medical journal. Out of nibs, I slid into Jamie’s empty study to get another from his desk. My eyes landed on the hour candle, set on a simple piece of crockery on the mantel. It still had within it the “insurance policy” of the black adamant gem. Jamie had always insisted we set it aside if ever one of us should need to travel back to the 20th century.  We had never used it- with Bree and her family here, there was no need to be other than where we were.  I had long ago made peace with the lack of hot water on tap and central heating, but I still occasionally remembered autoclaves and ophthalmoscopes with a certain amount of desire. If the 18th century didn’t have the conveniences of the 20th, it had Jamie and that was all that was needed to decide my mind.

It did have one thing I could use right now and that was chemotherapy.  I had no way to replicate the intricate processes used to create the compounds needed that were the only effective ingredient for what every sense told me was the pancreatic cancer that was eating away at Jamie’s vitality.   

But as I stared at the candle, an idea began to blossom. If I could get back to the twentieth century, perhaps I could obtain the chemical compounds.  There was no guarantee that I could lay hands on the right ones, cancer therapy could be very individualistic and what worked for one patient might not work for another. I’d have to bring a whole pharmacopeia back with me.  My physician’s license had most certainly expired; I wouldn’t have the access to what was needed. Then there were often so many side effects and they would need treatment as well.  How would I know which ones to bring?  I couldn’t be going back and forth between the stones like a revolving door.  For one, the gems needed to guarantee safe passage were not exactly laying around like autumn leaves. For the other, I knew how dangerous those stones were. There were many cases we’d heard of where some intrepid soul did not make the journey through the time barrier intact. There were the sounds in the loathsome place between the ages, too, a cacophony of human and inhuman shrieks and cries that tore the universe in there apart - I shuddered.

We had met some time travelers outside of our family-Geillis Duncan, Donner,  Ottertooth. One thing they all had in common was they all made it through the stones with what they carried on them intact.  Their clothes, their shoes, whatever they held in their hands or jackets pockets all came through _as a whole_ with them. It was if whatever they touched was made part and parcel of the of the time traveler and was thrust through time with them.

What if I could take Jamie to the future with me? What if we held each other as we went through?   He could not hear the stones as could I, Roger and Bree and their children, but goodness, my clothes didn’t hear the stones and they made it through intact. Perhaps I could act as guide for him and bring him through with me. One of the old Scottish folk songs that Roger used to sing even told the tale of a woman who had travelled through the stones carrying her baby.

If I could bring Jamie to the twentieth century, we could save him. At the very least, it was a fighting chance! God knows, in the twenty –five years since I had been through, there must have been an explosion in cancer research. Perhaps they had something that could save him. Who knows what steps modern medicine had taken in the intervening years?

Something akin to hope began to rise in my chest. This just might be possible.  Despair dropped from me like a shed chrysalis. The sudden surcease of expected doom was so refreshing, I felt like I could actually breathe for the first time in months.  I sat down at Jamie’s desk and immediately started a list of what we would need to realize such a plan. There were the gems of course, for protection through the time passage, better carry extra for Jamie’s protection. I’d need clothes that weren’t too archaic looking. I would need a good amount of cash - the drug treatments Jamie would need were likely exorbitantly expensive. Alas, health insurance was not an eighteenth century invention and I’m quite sure no policy would cover this particular set of circumstances. 

Where would I get such the money needed for such an objective? The answer came right to mind.  The gold. The gold in the Spaniard’s cave.  Arch and Murdina Bug had stolen it from Jamie’s aunt, and we had taken it back after our first big house had burnt down.   Jamie had then cached it away in a cave in the mountains, only he and Jem knew exactly where it was. It was perfect. It would travel well, be concentrated enough that we could carry a good amount on our persons and could easily be converted to cash in the twentieth century-much easier than in the current time.

We would need a good amount to start, but if we ran short, we would find what we hadn’t taken in the cave in the 20th century! It would be like having our own private bank.

For the first time in weeks, the rock of pain that had lodged in my chest began to ease.  I did not do well in situations that require me to watch helplessly. Having a plan, even if it was unlikely and could possibly prove impossible was a relief, a respite from the feelings of inadequacy and helplessness that had been crushing me.

The Spaniard’s cave where the stash of gold was hidden was several days away, and besides Jamie, there was only one person who knew the location. I stuffed the paper I had written on in a pocket and went to find Jem.

I found him that afternoon as the shadows grew long. He had spent the day in the woods gathering the maple buckets that collected the sap that ran in the trees, the end of the sugaring season being here. The sap could be boiled down to make maple syrup and maple candies, which the children loved.  Kel Johanneson had a sugar house over near the east end that he tended in the spring, and he boiled down the sap into the sweetness.

I saw Jem pass by with Garvey the mule on the way back to the stable. The mule’s pack was piled high with the empty buckets and spigots, most of which would be put away until next spring.  I caught up with him in the stable. He was climbing down from the loft where they would stash the buckets until next spring, barring any substantial need for them in the meantime.

There were several cans of finished syrup that I took from Garvey’s pack and set them aside to bring to the springhouse. The mule huffed with relief as I untied his cinches, munching on the wisps of hay he could reach in the vicinity of where he was tied.  “How is Kel?” I asked as I worked the rest of the pack’s buckles.  

“Fine, he says he’s found a bride.” Jem lifted the heavy pack harness off of Garvey and separated the pieces.

“A bride? Really? Did he say who?”

“She’s not from around here. She’s coming on a ship from Sweden, he says she dunna speak a word of English.”

Kel was a second generation Swede, but his mother lived with him and I wouldn’t be surprised if she was the force behind the sudden nuptials. I leaned over Garvey’s back to ask, “Has he ever even met her?”

“No. He’s just hoping she’s not too much like his mother.”

“I’ll bet he does.” I patted Garvey on the neck. “Well, that will make for an interesting honeymoon.”

Jem turned away and grabbed a hoof pick, but not before I saw his ears and neck had turned pink. “Hmmphm.”

I came around Garvey and watched as Jem slid his hand down the mule’s leg and eased the hoof up. With a few swipes of the pick, he cleaned it of the mud and stones and moved to the hind leg.

“Jem, I have something I need you to do.  And I need you to do it quickly and without telling anyone.”

He turned around and studied me. At nineteen, he was tall and lean, all hands and feet. His brilliant red hair stuck out from the edges of his hat like a furry fringe.  “Well now, tha’ sounds guy mysterious.” He patted the mule on the rump and went around to start on the hooves on the other side.

I took a deep breath. “I need you to go to the Spaniard’s cave.”

He popped up from the other side of Garvey. “The cave?”

“Yes, I need some of the gold.”

His eyes narrowed. “Do I get to ask what for?”

“I need to buy some gems. I want to take your grandfather through the stones.”

His eyebrows rose as he thought that over. He rested an elbow on the mule’s back. “You want to go back to –“ His hand made a gesture.

I nodded. “They have drugs there that could help him.”

His face blanched just a shade, no doubt remembering his own trips through that dangerous passage. Then his brow furrowed. “I thought he couldn’t hear them.“

“I think,” I said, coming around Garvey, “that he might be able to travel with me, if we keep in close physical contact.”

“Close…” He repeated, thinking. He lifted his hat, revealing how it had pressed his hair close to the skull, except for the wild fringe that escaped around the edges. He ran the other hand over his hair and then jammed the hat back on his head.  “Aye, I’ll do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos-they are much appreciated!


	5. The Mountain

It was a 'good' day. I realized that as soon as I wakened and my hand groped to the empty spot on the bed next to me. Jamie must have risen and already be up and around. That meant he was feeling well, a blessing I gratefully accepted. I stretched, luxuriating in the feather bed.

I'd delivered the newest Buchanan baby yesterday. That was one procedure I would never tire of. Watching as a new soul came into the world was the greatest joy a physician could have. There is almost a psychic shockwave that reverberates in the room when a baby was born. The moment before there might be _X_ people in the room, a moment later _X + 1_. It changes the tenor of the room, not just from the baby cries and the parents' joy at a safe delivery but the presence of a new soul. The babies seem to bring some indefinable essence into the world with them from wherever new souls come from. It trails their arrival like magician's smoke. There is a wonder, a newness, and as they perceive the world for the first time, for a moment it feels like the world looks back at them.

The enormity of infinite possibility rests there for an instant in this, the smallest human bundle. Is this the child that will bring peace to a war-ravaged world? Could this be the child who brings a gift for music that heals hearts and touches souls? Perhaps this child will find the engine that can take humanity beyond our current physical limits and throw us out among the stars? The parents cannot know as they cuddle and explore with awe the new human creature, but still the limitless potentiality is there. As the child grows older, doors and paths to greatness may close, but it is the closest thing to real magic I ever expected to get.

And that was counting the time passage in the stones. That portal was terrifying and unknowable I thought; still, something about it felt governed by science. If we as humans didn't understand what the rules and boundaries of that time travel passage might be, still it operated by some phenomenon. After all, I didn't have to know how a television worked to be able to use one.

A piercing whistle sounded from the yard below. I rose from the bed and opened the window that overlooked the front yard. Jamie stood in the yard, holding the reins of two horses, saddled and ready for riding, each with a pack. He was dressed in his finest kilt and a deep green jacket, his silver hair brushed and clubbed. Nearly seventy, he still exuded masculine confidence and powerful competence. It made my heart leap like a young girl's to see him looking so handsome and distinguished.

"Hey Sassenach! Are ye going to sleep awa' the day?" he called up to me, a bright smile on his face.

"The day?" If it was just past seven, I'd be surprised. I brushed my sleep-tangled curls from my face. "Awfully early to be so ambitious, isn't it?" I teased.

"It's no too ambitious to be asking yer wife to go on a ride and a picnic, aye?" He gestured at the ready horses.

I leaned out the window, charmed. "A picnic?"

"Aye, it's packed and ready to go. Will ye come?" His smile deepened.

I laughed breathlessly. "Yes! Yes, I will!" A chance to get away from the household hubbub and spend the day with Jamie, a wonderful idea. I pulled back into the room and turned, ready to sprint into getting ready, when his voice called me back.

"Oh, and Sassenach?"

I stuck my head back out. "Yes?"

His smile turned sly. "Wear the blue dress, aye?"

The blue dress was a relatively new one, made for last fall's gathering, but it was finely made and fitted me very well. I knew it was one of Jamie's favorites and it laced up the front. "All right," I agreed, smiling back with what I hoped was promise in my eyes, my heart racing with suppressed excitement.

I turned back into the room and began to rush through the morning's ablutions. I pulled the blue dress out of the wardrobe and gave it a shake. It was one of my best dresses, an odd choice for an outdoor picnic, but if Jamie wanted me to wear it, and with him wearing his best kilt, I wasn't going to deny him. I pulled it on, my fingers fumbling with the laces in my anticipation. I dragged a comb through my hair, twisted and pinned it up, and grabbed a wide brimmed hat and my shawl on the way out.

Mrs. Mueller met me at the stairs and handed me a jug of cider. "This vill keep ya for a bit, jah?"

"Thank you," I said, tucking it under my arm as I tied the hat strings beneath my chin. I trotted down the front steps to where Jamie waited. The sun had risen not long ago; long shadows reached across the yard and the surrounding trees were full of birdsong. The horses seemed still asleep, their heads down, drowsing. I threw the shawl over my shoulders as Jamie dropped the horse reins and stepped up to me.

Stately and commanding in his Highland regalia, his silver hair glinted in the sun. His arm snaked around my waist and pulled me close. "Oh, yer a bonnie lass."

I laughed, feeling heady and young, my blood effervescent in my veins like champagne. I laid my hand on the dark green velvet of his jacket. "You're quite handsome, yourself." The years dropped from me as he pulled me close and kissed me soundly. Across the yard, a wolf-whistle echoed and we broke apart to see Roger grinning at our public display of affection.

Jamie's hand slid to mine, his eyes shining with excitement. "Let's get going before they find an excuse to stop us."

"Yes, let's," I said, my excitement echoing his. He gave me a leg up onto my horse and then mounted his smoothly. Ill he might be, but today the world felt new and full of hope. He laid the reins on the horse's neck and we set off. We trotted across the north field that lay near the house and set off into the path that led up to the mountain. Jamie was talkative and busy pointing out where the crops would be, the nest the falcons were building, and the spoor of an elk that had passed through.

I sipped on my cider as the horses paced along. We kept gradually climbing. "Where are we headed?" I finally asked.

He twisted on his horse, turning back to me. I caught the gleam of his teeth as he smiled. "High."

"Oh? How high?"

"Kraggin's Dome."

That was at the top of the mountain. It had been years since I'd been quite so high but I knew that Jamie, Ian and Jem frequently went there. "That high, eh?" I asked, an eye toward my husband's stamina.

He seemed unfazed though and eager to show me. We climbed on horseback for a good two hours, before we emerged from the tree line near the top of the mountain. We hobbled the horses in a lower meadow and then climbed the rest of the way on the stone slope of the dome up to the highest field. It was a grassy expanse, a single large spreading oak at the top. Scattered patches of granite poked through the grass, the bones of the mountain showing.

We made it to the top, lugging the packs, both of us winded, but in good spirits and joking about what age had stolen from us. Jamie spread a blanket and we gratefully collapsed on it. The day was heating up as the sun rose, but the shade under the oak was deep and cool and most welcome after our exertions. There was a slight breeze that just tickled the silver tendrils of hair that had escaped Jamie's queue.

"Oh my," I said when I had caught my breath enough to look around.

"It's a climb but worth it, aye?" he said, laying his jacket carefully aside. His snowy white shirt and stock complemented the silver of his hair, and his nose in profile was still a knife blade, more prominent than ever, as majestic as an eagle. Around us, the panoramic view stretched for miles. We could see the shape of the Ridge below us and how it led to the valley floor and the rolling hills beyond. Far off and blue with distance, Mount Mitchell rose above the surrounding hills like a mother duck among ducklings. To our right, Grandfather Mountain reached high, humped like the back of a buffalo. Against a background of bright blue, a hawk soared with wings spread wide, sliding along the air currents. A few clouds rode like ships in the vast expanse of sky.

I inhaled the sweet air, fragrant with heather. "It's spectacular," I agreed, removing my hat.

"Would ye let yer hair down?" Jamie asked, reclining on the blanket and supported by an elbow. "I like it best when it curls higgly-piggly round yer head like a halo."

I studied him for a moment but he was smiling guilelessly at me. "All right," I said, removing the pins and letting my hair loose. It immediately sprung outwards and I fluffed it out with a hand. "How's that?" I asked, giving my head a shake.

"Lovely," Jamie said, capturing a strand that had blown across my face. "It minds me of when we first met, on the road to Leoch."

"It's not quite the same color," I said, self-consciously, capturing a tendril to examine it. There was more gray and silver than brown in it. "Quite a bit of gray."

"No, it's not, but ye earned every strand of it. I like it." He learned forward and kissed me very sweetly. He had shaved and his skin smelled faintly of wood and clean male animal.

I touched a strand self-consciously. "You like it?"

"Aye. I have loved watching ye get older and settling into yerself. It's like time has been distilling ye, making ye more concentrated and stronger. Yer more Claire-like than ye were ten, twenty years ago. "

"More Claire-like, hmm? Not everybody would say that's a good thing."

"Only those that don't know ye." He took my hand in his and kissed my palm. "It has been my honor and pleasure to watch ye grow older."

The dull ache in my hips and knees from the climb was vanishing. I turned the hat in my lap around and stuffed the strings into the crown. "Do you regret growing older?" I asked.

His eyebrows rose. "Regret, ye say?" Those Fraser cat eyes crinkled with humor. "Well, considering the alternative, I've no regrets at all."

"You know what I mean," I insisted gently.

He stroked my captured palm, turning serious. "No, no regrets. Only, well…"

"Yes?"

"Thankful, that I should live so long to see this." His arm gestured to out surroundings. "To see my children grow and have bairns of their own. To see the Ridge take root and flourish, see my tenants multiply and prosper. To see the new country we fought for become its own republic, out from under the English thumb. It's verra grateful I am to have lived long enough t' see it. "

I smiled at him and he smiled back, his eyes looking deep into mine. His voice dropped lower. "But it's you, Sassenach, that I am most grateful for. Ye do not know what you have done for me."

My hand rested in his four-fingered hand. "Kept you up and about, I expect."

"No, that's no it at all, though I am grateful for that as well. No, I dinna think ye ken how badly ye saved me, when you came back to me."

I had apologized any number of times for my delay in returning to him after our parting at Culloden and guilt struck me anew. We could have had so many more years had I only looked for him in the annals of history a little harder, a little sooner.

As usual, he read my tell-tale face. "No, ye came just at the right time, _mo chridhe_. What I think ye dinna realize is the path that I was on that ye turned me aside from."

"What do you mean?"

He looked off into the distance. "When a man is alone, by himself, for too long, he can forget things. When circumstances have conspired against him, and left him with naught to hold onto but the remembrance of wrongs against him and thoughts of vengeance, it … it changes a man. He builds a shell around himself that keeps the hurts awa' from his soul, his sense of self, but the shell keeps out the good things too, like tenderness and love." He took a deep breath. "I'd been building such a wall around myself, when ye found me in the print shop. I was turning into something cold and stone like."

I knew he had had a hard time, a desperate time even, in the years I was raising Bree, The awful defeat at Culloden, the solitary years in the cave and then bouncing from that at least peaceful solitude into the overcrowding and constant presence of each other at Ardsmuir, bound by chains like an animal. From there released into the greener pastures of Helwater to be regarded as no more than the lowest menial worker and have to deny the claim to his only treasure at the time: his son. If he had turned steely and icy-hearted, who would have blamed him? No one, certainly not I.

Jenny, his sister, had seen what was happening to his soul and tried to call him back from the hell he was creating for himself by arranging his marriage to Laoghaire. Jenny's good-hearted intent though had only pushed him further along that cold road of isolation and withdrawal. His hopes to be rescued from the hell he was building for himself had once again been dashed, and Laoghaire's failure to see the man he truly was whom she had married turned bitter and acrimonious.

Jamie sat up and put his arms around his knees, his head bent. "Ye can see the walls building aroun' ye, ye feel yerself getting further and further awa' from the man ye want to be, but there seems no turning back. The world has turned icy in front of ye and ye stand behind a glass wall of yer own making with no way to tear it down, even should ye want to. And they call it living, but the truth is, yer barely alive."

Tears had started down my face. I so badly wanted to pull him into my arms, but I knew there were things he needed to say and were the reason for this picnic. My lips pursed of their own accord, trying to keep back my words to let him finish.

He gazed out over the panoramic view, his face as hard as the mountain we sat on. "Those years marked me and worse than the things that ha' been done to my body. They seared my soul. I began to see how a monster like Jack Randall was made. "

His voice lowered and he swallowed. "I had dreams about Wentworth –aye, like I do. But the worst were the dreams where I turned _into_ Jack Randall."

I must have made a noise then, an aborted attempt at denial, for he glanced at me and his face softened at my tears. He lay down beside me and gathered me in his arms, murmuring soft assurances and stroking my head. I put my arms around him, snaking my legs between his, trying to touch every part of him, thankful for the familiar warmth and strength.

"But ye see? Ye walked into my print shop and dragged me back from wheree'er I was going. Ye shattered my walls and called me back into the light. How do ye thank someone for that? Ten lifetimes would not be enough."

Tears were tracing lines on my face but I let his shirt soak them up, rather than disrupt our embrace. He kissed the top of my head and hugged me fiercely. He was still a strong man, but his embrace would never be too tight. "Oh, Sassenach. Thankful does not come near enough to describe it."

My heart was going to be burst. "Oh, Jaime, I love you so." I turned my face up to his.

His eyes were leaking tears. He smiled and used a thumb to brush the line of tears on my cheek. "You have rescued me body and soul, time and time again."

"You have rescued me," I whispered. "Why do you think I came back from the future? There will always be only you for me. Only you."

The branches of the spreading oak rustled in the slight breeze. The sunlight danced through it, dappling the ground around us. "I ken what you asked of Jem," he said softly.

I froze. He knew then, of my plan to bring him through the stones with me to the future where there might be medical help for his cancer. I pulled away from him and sat up, twisting to see him. "It's a chance, Jamie. They may be able to cure you there."

He smiled ruefully. "Can they cure old age there as well?"

"Well, no but — "

"And how would ye be getting me through the stones? It's a guy dangerous passage for those who can hear the stones, aye? I've never been able to hear a wee peep from them, never mind —"

"We would go together, in close contact! We'd need some extra gemstones, of course, but if I can bring a pregnancy through intact, or – or even my clothes, all arrive with me. There's no reason to think we can't — "

He shook his head. "Aye, Sassenach. There is every reason in the world. Would you have me trapped in there for all eternity, never to see the face of my God? Should I risk your life in exchange for a wee chance at mine?"

"But there's a chance! We have to take it!" I insisted desperately.

He was still, his eyes searching my face. His eyes softened with pity and I knew that his mind was made up and stubborn Scot that he was, there'd be no changing it. "No," he said softly. He tugged at my hand and I let him have it. "No. I willna take the risk, for what? A few more days, perhaps? No, my life is not worth risking yours."

I kept my eyes on our clasped hands. "Yes, it is."

The sun died behind a passing cloud and shade rippled across the meadow like the shadow of a passing giant. "Do ye mind the day we marrit? We held hands then as we talked."

"I remember."

"We both were as nervous as mice in a roomful of cats."

"I seem to remember that we _did_ get over that."

He chuckled. "Aye, we did." He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed our wedding ring. "No, Claire. I will not try to thwart God's plan for me. I am seventy years old —seventy! Do ye ken my mother died at thirty-eight and my father at forty-nine? I ha' lived twenty years o'er that now, and I ha' been blessed with all I dreamed for and more. "

"I want more," I whispered.

"Well, you were always a wee greedy thing, aye?"

I lifted my head in outrage, but it dissipated with the teasing smile on his face. He stroked the back of my hand with his thumb. "No, I'm not," I grumbled. But he was right. I would do anything to be with Jamie Fraser and risk anything. I always had and always would.

"Come, lie down and let me hold ye," he asked. I lay down and put my head in the hollow of his shoulder, our legs tangled together. "We have made a good pair, we two, aye? If we couldna change history, at least we made it our own."

"What am I going to do without you?" I whispered, my voice thick with tears.

"Ye will live long and take care of our Bree and her bairns and, aye, maybe even their barns." He brushed the hair away from my face. "I can see ye sitting by the fire, ancient and venerable, with a wee beastie on yer lap. Ye will still have work to do."

I tucked my head against his chest. "I'll be alone." I could not help the despair that tinged my voice.

"I will be there, _mo chridhe._ In the house I've built around ye, in the faces of yer children, in the ground ye walk and the air ye breathe. "

It would never be enough, but I could not lay that guilt at his feet. It would be a pale and bleak existence without him.

"What do they say of death in the future, Sassenach? Have they more knowledge of what happens to a man's soul when he dies?" Jamie was the most fearless man I would ever know but I also knew that under the matter-of-fact tone in his voice, he faced the same uncertainty, the same trepidation of the unknown faced by every man that contemplated death's doorstep.

I took a deep breath to calm myself, trying to find an answer that would give him comfort. But there was no real hope I could see. Had we learned anything about the afterlife in the two hundred years that passed between the eighteenth and twentieth centuries? Had they found any more evidence of either God's existence or non-existence, of heaven or hell?

"No, they don't," I said. "They haven't been able to prove that God exists or that He doesn't. They don't know anymore about that than we do know."

I felt him nod, thinking that over. "Aye, its well then. There is still a place for faith."

"Yes, there still is," I agreed.

"Do ye think there maybe is a place in heaven for me?" he asked somewhat shyly.

"Oh, Jamie, I know there is." I rested my chin on his chest so I could see his face. His eyelashes had not changed with age, still as auburn as the day we married. Any heaven that would not admit James Fraser was a heaven I would want no part of, no matter how many harps and mansions there were.

Between skipping breakfast and the physical activity, my stomach decided the neglect had gone on long enough. The sound of it rumbling loudly brought a smile to both our faces.

"It's plain when you're hungry, aye? Let's get some food into ye." He gently disengaged from me and reached for the pack.

Very good food it was indeed. Fresh baked rolls stuffed with goat cheese and sour pickle, and some of Mrs. Mueller's Berliners made with the wild strawberries Bree and I had cultivated in our garden and turned into jam. We washed it down with cider, fresh and crisp.

Jamie was not a reflective man and I most certainly wasn't such a person either, but some mood of nostalgia and sentiment caught us and as we ate, we reminisced about our life together. "Did you know I told Father Anselm that I was from the future?" I asked, licking my fingers free of strawberry jam.

His eyebrows rose. After so many years together, it was gratifying to still be able to surprise him. "Father Anselm? You mean, at the abbey?"

It had been right after Wentworth. "Yes. "

"No, ye never told me. Did he believe ye?" He captured my hand and licked a dab of strawberry jam from the side of the pinkie.

"You know, I think he did. " I said, wiping my sticky fingers on the blanket. "At least, he didn't call me crazy or a witch."

Jamie snorted. "Ye ken he did look at me strange when we were leaving. After he'd blessed us, he pulled me aside and said I should take special care of ye. He was worrit ye'd be having, what d'ye call 'em?— delusions."

"He did no such thing!"

Jamie laughed and pulled me backwards so we lay on the blanket. "No, he didna. I just like to see your eyes flash when ye get yer dander up." He brushed the curls back from my face. "My beautiful Sassenach…"

He nuzzled my breasts and I loosened the lacing of my bodice. We made love then, slow and tender, barely undressing, just pushing the necessary clothing out of the way. It had a timelessness about it; I felt as ancient as the mountain beneath and as new as the birds that sang around us.

People think that being intimate with only one person year after year is bound to get boring, but in reality it is the opposite. Each time you lay together, you bring a different mood, a different version of yourself to it, and a sensitive partner picks up on that. You are free to bring all of your true self to each encounter and it creates a diversity that could never be matched by the false intimacy of a stable of other lovers.

Afterwards, Jamie curled up behind me, pulling my back to his chest. He nuzzled my nape and relaxed, his breath becoming even and slow. I thought perhaps he had fallen asleep, but then I felt a ripple of awareness run through him.

"I had a dream last night of my mother," Jamie said. "Willie was with her. He was a man, but I kent it was him." His brother had died when he was six, his mother just two years later.

"Was it sad?" I asked sympathetically, hugging his arm to my chest.

"No, no it wasn't." His voice was low and relaxed. "They had packs on like they were headed someplace, but then they turned and saw me. My mother came and hugged me, and I could smell her. I woke up with her smell in my nose."

He had always had prophetic dreams, dreams with knowledge of things he couldn't possibly have known, dreams of the future. I hugged his arm a little closer to me. Ellen MacKenzie had been a strong force in his life. But she couldn't have him back, not just yet.

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